The importance of books in your life.
A memory: I’m nine years old and my parents are looking for me. We’re at a dinner party at some family friends and it’s time to go home. Eventually they find me in a big armchair in a hidden away corner, curled up with Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I agree to leave only when told I can take the book with me.
Another memory: Christmas Day. I emerge from my room with puffy, red eyes for the first time that holiday, exclaiming: “How can he not love Scarlett!”. After that, my parents checked the ending of every book they bought for me.
Thirty-two years old: telling a friend that the fact that I agreed to meet him for dinner when I had forty pages left of The Hunger Games spoke volumes about how much I loved him.
One month ago: telling a man I’ve been dating that there have been moments when I preferred him over reading. “Katarina”, he said, much moved, “I had no idea you were such a romantic!”
Books will always be better than real life.
In books, if our heroine meets an interesting man on a train, you can be sure they will meet again in a few chapters. In real life, they will never meet again. In books, the handsome bastard will turn out to be a good guy underneath that annoying surface. In real life, he’ll just turn out to be a bastard. In books, if a person dreams about doing something, you can be pretty sure she’ll have done it by the end of the book. In life, if a person dreams about doing something, she’ll probably spend most of her days doing everything but that. God has a lousy sense of plot development.
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